


Change of Season

by jessebee



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessebee/pseuds/jessebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The winter solstice is a time of change, and rarely more than now for Duncan MacLeod.   (2004 FanQ winner for HIGHLANDER slash.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter

 

 

 

Taking a sip of champagne, Duncan MacLeod leaned on the railing of the second floor balcony and watched the holiday crowd in the ballroom below, wondering, wryly and not for the first time, how he managed to get himself into these things.

 

When one of his older, dearer, mortal friends, a fellow antiques dealer, had called him up a month or so earlier and sweetly begged for help in setting up her Christmas party, he should have known. "I just want to pick your brain, Duncan, really," Katherine had said, with just the right edge of pleading in her voice. "Rob has got it in his head that he wants to do Jane Austen this year, and you know that's just not my best period. Help? Please?"

 

To his chagrin, he'd heard himself agreeing. "But only advice, Katherine. I will probably be out of London the week you're having it."

 

Famous last words.

 

Ah, well. At least he'd managed to wring the promise from Katherine that she was **not** _,_ under pain of death, to mention that tonight was only a day off from his birthday. That would draw far more attention to himself than he wanted to deal with, and from a crowd of virtual strangers, no less. Well, at least there were a few people here he knew: acquaintances from the antiques world, a friend of Katherine's he'd once dated. And Joe Dawson, bless him.

 

Katherine had been quite adamant that Mac invite as many of his own friends as he wanted -- "Really, Duncan, it's the very least I can do," -- and so he'd asked Joe, somewhat hesitantly, knowing the man had responsibilities to his own business during the busy holiday season.

 

To his surprise, Joe had agreed. "It'll make a interesting change, Mac, thanks. I think I'd like that."

 

And what had happened but that Joe had run into a fellow performer he'd not seen in a while, so the Watcher was now comfortably ensconced with his friend over by the chamber players, quite happily comparing songs and techniques and whatever else it was musicians talked about.

 

Which left him wondering about the only other person he'd cared to invite. Methos.

 

Who hadn't agreed to come. Or rather, hadn't really said one way or the other, in true Methos fashion, when Mac had extended the invitation even more diffidently than he'd done with Joe. "I try not to do trips down memory lane, Mac," and the shadow of their unexpected, painful brush with that period of Methos' past had flashed through Mac's brain with the raw, irritating clarity of perfect memory. "Nor am I much into retro fashion, either. I'd hate to try finding a tailor in this century who could fit the clothes properly. And you are asking me because…?"

 

"Because then I'll be assured of some intelligent conversation and a deterrent to strangling some vapid airhead." Yes, that had sounded half-way convincing.

 

Methos had looked almost like he was suppressing a grin. "And what do I get out of this?"

 

"My undying gratitude." That had not impressed. "And a lot of free, high-priced alcohol."

 

Methos had eyed him a moment longer with an expression he'd had no chance of deciphering, then smoothly changed the subject.

 

Mac hadn't found it that hard, really, to find the appropriate clothes; they were in London, after all. Although finding them had reminded him of why he'd not been fond of the fashions: glove-fit breeches and coats so tight he couldn't lift his arms to shoulder-height, never mind fight in them.

 

But here he was, outfitted in the best of Regency splendor, watching the happy mortals mingling on the ballroom floor just below him, and getting wistful, remembering other parties and happier days.

 

The prickle started suddenly, a tremor up his spine, and became full-blown Presence, deep and resonant, a complex chord echoing and never quite resolving…only one Immortal had a buzz like that. The only Immortal he'd ever come to be able to recognize by the feel of his Presence alone.

 

He watched as a new group of party-goers entered through the tall double doors at the far end of the room and -- there, at the back.

 

Methos.

 

The oldest Immortal's head was up, clearly looking for him, and their eyes locked. For a moment the rest of the room faded. Then Methos gave him a slight nod and the edge of his quirky smile and turned to survey the room, accepting a glass from one of the uniformed servers, looking utterly calm and collected.

 

Mac wished he could say the same. He was, at that moment, unutterably glad for the stone railing in front of him as he tried to regain his composure.

 

Methos was the very picture of sartorial perfection. His usual careless appearance was completely gone, vanished under beautifully tailored clothes and champagne-polish boots. His white cravat held the points of his shirt collar high and close to grace the lines of his neck and chin, the snowy fabric tied in some style that Mac had no trouble believing the man might have taught to Brummell, a pin winking from the folds. A patterned golden-tan waistcoat gleamed between the lapels of his burgundy cutaway as he turned again, and below that, close-fitted trousers of a darker gold showed off his long, long legs in a way that jeans never quite had. Methos was, quite simply, built for the fashions. Even his posture was different, more upright, the tight coat emphasizing his normally hidden breadth of shoulder.

 

Mac tried to swallow in a throat gone desert-dry. Methos was elegant and fine; a portrait of masculine beauty.

 

He was also walking, breathing sex on two legs.

 

Methos was looking up at him again, eyebrows asking the question. _Are you coming down, or shall I come up?_ Then he was heading toward the stairs. He had reached the first step before Mac succeeded in shaking himself free of the trance engendered by the other man's fluid grace, which also drew the eyes of many of the women present.

 

And no few number of the men.

 

Mac met him halfway down the staircase, at the first landing. Methos leaned back against the heavy stone banister and made Mac a small salute with his glass. The older man's expression looked to be equal parts bemusement and chagrin, as though he couldn't quite believe he was where he was. Mac couldn't quite control his grin. "Found a tailor, I see."

 

"Dry cleaner, actually. It's frightening what one discovers cleaning out the closet."

 

While Mac wasn't sure he believed that, it would explain the excellent fit. "Adam, I really do appreciate your coming," Mac said, careful to use his friend's 'public' name.

 

"Yes, well, you'd better, because you owe me big for this. I loathe costume functions, surrounded by people who've absolutely no clue what they're doing. Although I must say, this lot is better than most."

 

Mac found himself vaguely embarrassed, for some unknown reason. "Well, Katherine asked me for rather detailed descriptions for everything from the period. I tried to oblige." Keeping his eyes on the crowd, he felt his companion watching him. Methos raised his now mostly-empty glass again.

 

"You succeeded."

 

Mac felt the slightest tinge of flush, to his own startlement, at the compliment.

 

Methos seemed not to notice, turned to lean forward against the railing, watching the crowd below. “Ah, Regency England," he commented after some minutes. "Tried to avoid the larger gatherings like this. But I attended a fair number of more—intimate ones, before I had to leave.”

 

The older man's eyes widened suddenly, his expression one of having said something he hadn't intended and wanted to retract, but it was too late. Mac's breath caught as the picture slammed unbidden into his mind, in brilliant Technicolor complete with soundtrack. “Yes, I know."

 

 _Damn_.

 

He swore quietly as he caught Methos’ minute flinch, the hazel eyes squeezing closed for a moment. It'd been out of his mouth before he could stop it; why in the hell had Methos brought that up? Mac certainly had had no intent of raising the ghost of Byron between them, tonight of all nights, or any other night for that matter; judging from Methos's reaction, neither had he. But the sudden image had been blindingly strong, Methos-then overlaid on Methos-now. Longer hair, sideburns. Similar clothes, much smaller party. Intimate? Indeed. And the feelings Byron had had. Oh yes, those were similar as well. “Adam, I didn’t mean to—“

 

“Mac.” Very soft, but it stopped the words in his throat. “It’s over and done. Let it be. Don’t insult either of us by apologizing for something you don’t regret.” Methos’ voice was harder than it had been, and finely edged.

 

Mac swallowed. “Not for that. You’re right, I don’t regret my actions. But I very much regret the necessity.  And..." he took the plunge, and laid his hand on the other man's arm, "I regret far more that I caused you pain."

 

Stillness, and an air of surprise; then Methos blinked once, slowly.  The muscles under Mac's hand relaxed, and to Mac's relief and delight, the older man laid his own long-fingered hand over Mac's and squeezed once, briefly.  Then he extricated himself neatly, in the guise of snagging two more flutes of champagne from a passing waiter, and Mac let him go.  His palm tingled, and he resisted the urge to rub it.

 

Methos turned back and handed him one of the glasses. Mac set his empty down on the waiter's proffered tray.  The waiter moved off, and Methos met Mac's eyes and lifted his glass.  " _L'Chaim_ ," he said, his cultured voice rich, his pronunciation perfect, his eyes never leaving Mac's.  _To life._ Mac felt the hair at his nape rise.  So much meaning invested in that one short word. 

 

He raised his own glass and touched it lightly to Methos'.  "I'll drink to that."

 

A moment more their eyes connected, then they both turned to watch the crowd below, as if in mutual agreement. Mac inhaled, drawing in the subtle spice of Methos' aftershave and the subtler tang of the man himself, enjoying the warm feeling that washed over him. Something had just been settled between them. He wasn't sure quite how, but it had. And riding that feeling, he let instinct take over and again laid his hand on Methos' arm. "Have you met our redoubtable hostess yet?"

 

Methos gave him a small but very genuine smile, green-gold eyes sparkling. "No, but I've a feeling I'm about to. Lay on, MacLeod," he misquoted, his smile widening fractionally at Mac's eye-roll and look of disgust.

 

Mac turned and led the way down the stairs, careful not to let Methos see his own grin. _'He only does it to annoy, because he knows it teases.'_ God, but it was good to have the other man back in his life, even though it had taken the tragedy of Connor MacLeod's death to change things. _And having finally gotten you back, I'll not let past or present estrange us again. Not if there's anything at all I can do to stop it._

 

###

 

Some fifteen minutes later, Mac watched 'Adam Pierson' move off to chat with Joe, then turned his attention back to his hostess. He was amused to see her also watching Adam's departure with a rather considering look. He leaned down by her ear. "Katherine, you're married," he teased.

 

"Married, not dead," she tossed back at him, her eyes mischievous. Katherine Dunning was a classic example of the fair Celtic type, with white skin and dark hair, wrapped in a lovely silvery gown that threw a hint of purple into her gray eyes. She was as obviously English as her husband Rob was American, with his bulky frame and features not to be pinned to any particular ancestry.

 

"Duncan, do I know you well enough to ask a rather personal question?"

 

"Well, let's see. You knew me before I met Tessa, we've had dinner, we've dated, we more than dated, I was at your wedding…." Mac pretended to consider, then pretended to wince as Katherine smacked him on the arm.

 

"Wretch," she smiled at him. "So, where did you meet him?"

 

"Paris, a few years ago." Only a few years, truly. It just **seemed** as if it had been several lifetimes.

 

"He's not a dealer, I think?"

 

"Historical research, actually." Oh, **there** was a mouthful.

 

She was quiet for a few moments, and Mac became aware that she was watching him now, not Methos. Watching him watch Methos. _Uh oh…_

 

"Duncan." She pulled his arm gently to bring his head down. "Are you and Adam --together?"

 

Mac stayed carefully still for a moment, consciously resisting the urge to blink. Or sigh.

 

He met Katherine's eyes and was -- relieved? startled? -- to find nothing but affection and curiosity. "Why do you ask?" he said, pleased with how normal his voice sounded.

 

"Because you…light up, for lack of a better term, when you look at him."

 

He did close his eyes then. Dear God, was he that obvious?

 

"And I don't think you're terribly obvious, it's just that I've seen you that way before. You looked at Tessa that way, but no one else that I remember. Certainly not me."

 

That popped his eyes open, and he took her arm. "Katherine…"

 

"Darling, it's all right. You were never in love with me, which is fine, because I was never in love with you, either. But I do love you. And you should be happy, Duncan."

 

He sighed, giving in. "It's -- complicated."

 

Katherine smiled, looking wry. "Of course it is. The worthwhile ones always are."

 

Mac grinned, remembering the wild, merry, painful chase she and Rob had given each other. And how happy he and Tessa had been for them when they finally stopped running and admitted the inevitable. And how Tessa had been sure of them from the beginning.

 

"Go get him, Duncan."

 

"I don't know if --"

 

"He is."

 

He narrowed his eyes at her; she'd answered a different statement than the one he'd been about to make. "How would you --"

 

She grinned back in that way that had always made her look about sixteen and very, very naughty; then shrugged, the movement looking rather out of place with her gown. "Women's intuition? I don't know, darling, I can't explain it. But he **is** interested, I'd bet you a nice dinner on it."

 

_It'd be a sucker bet. Interested? Sure. I'm four hundred years old and have eyes in my head; I can see that he's interested. Or was, anyway, before…. But not the way I am. Not the way I want him, **need** him to be. God help me, I couldn't just have sex with you, Methos. Casual with you is not an option. It would tear me apart, and then it would destroy what we have left. Or worse yet: somehow, some way you might come to love me -- and then leave. Or die. Like Tessa did; like they all did. No. **No.** Better the ache of never-having than the agony of had-and-lost…._

 

"Duncan?"

 

Mac refocused on the slightly puzzled woman in front of him. Taking her hand, he lifted it with a smile and his best Regency flourish, eyes never leaving hers. "Shouldn't you be getting back to your other guests? 'T'would be rude of me to take up more of your time."

 

Katherine gave him a curtsey and narrowed eyes, clearly recognizing the evasion for what it was. "You could always be infuriating, Duncan MacLeod, and I'd swear you've gotten worse."

 

 _I've had a good teacher._ "Until later, then."

 

###

 

In the chair he'd commandeered next to Joe, Methos sipped at his champagne, watching the room in general and Mac in particular, trying not to be too obvious about it. The champagne was good quality; too good, in fact, to last much longer. It had to be costing the hosts a mint. He wondered absently what his chances might be of getting a decent beer instead, then dismissed the thought. It wasn't that sort of party.

 

Whatever it was that got served when the champagne ran out, he'd keep drinking it. It would certainly help him get through the evening.

 

Not that he was going to get drunk tonight, not at this rate and certainly not with his Immortal metabolism cleaning up behind him. But perhaps he'd get mellow enough to blunt the impact of the man standing some feet away, chatting politely with the hostess.

 

The sight of Mac tonight had been like a blow to the stomach, sudden and sharp, leaving Methos feeling like an axis somewhere had shifted. Mac had been standing on the second landing, looking for all the world like the manor lord. A crisp white shirt and black breeches hugged his muscular body like a glove, the stark contrast highlighted by a waistcoat of dark, subtle green. His white cravat was touched with the same green and expertly tied, throwing his golden skin into warm relief. Over it all was a cutaway coat in a deep, warm sable, almost the exact color of Mac's hair in the sunlight. He was utterly magnificent.

 

Methos was fairly certain that he'd been able to hide his reaction from the Scot. Now if only he could hide it from himself. Mac looked, to put it bluntly, edible. And Methos wanted, with an ache so sharp it was nearly physical pain, to grab him and take a bite.

 

Or maybe a lick.

 

Make that several hundred licks.

 

He ruthlessly throttled the line of thought before his body could react further. The tight breeches he wore, while more comfortable than they looked, hid absolutely nothing. And while he'd ceased being discomforted millennia ago by what were, after all, perfectly natural reactions, he just didn't feel like dealing with a raised eyebrow and sly comment from either Mac or Joe. Not tonight.

 

No, tonight he just wanted to relax and enjoy the vision of the Scot in those obscenely flattering clothes. A small, wry smile quirked his mouth -- _so much for not thinking about it._ From the corner of his eye he saw Joe notice. Then decide not to notice, which only made Methos smile again. He'd always given the Watcher high marks for intelligence. Besides, he was pretty sure Joe had figured it out years ago, anyway. It wasn't as though Methos had made a great secret of it, after all, in those first years. Before Alexa. Slowly again, after Alexa. Before Kronos' arrival, and Methos' own right-on-the-edge-of-duplicity, had ripped great holes in his and Mac's friendship. That they'd been able to reweave it, slowly, gradually, into something with a stronger, truer fit qualified as rather a miracle, considering who and what Mac was. What Methos was.

 

Mac's apology tonight had settled something for him in a way that he hadn't realized he'd needed. Not for Byron's death, no; Methos had known for years that his former student was headed for a date with a sword. What he'd needed was Mac's acknowledgement of his loss, his grief, that they meant something. That what he felt actually mattered to Mac; that he, Methos, mattered. He snorted softly. _Five millennia and you let your self-worth be affected by the opinions of a four-hundred year old child. How very mature of you, old man._ It shouldn't matter, it really shouldn't. But it did.

 

 _Is that why I brought up Byron like that?_ He'd realized a second too late what was coming out of his mouth, but even so he hadn't been quite ready for Mac's response. Some Quickenings integrated more fully than others, he'd found, the memories more accessible. Judging by Mac's expression at that moment, the integration was total: the Highlander could see, and feel, everything Byron had experienced.

 

Which would include the sight of Methos naked on white sheets, arched up in passion.

 

Hell of a vision to have to be carried by a man who could barely stand to touch him.

 

When Mac had called those months ago to ask if he might stop by, Methos had known, realistically, that odds were the Scot had needed information of some sort from him. Still, the fact that he **had** called was progress, and cause enough for a celebratory glass of wine.

 

And in the aftermath of Connor MacLeod and Jacob Kell, Mac had come to him again. And stayed this time, at his cautious invitation, Mac's acceptance of which had shocked Methos nearly speechless. Why exactly he had stayed Mac never said, but stay he had.

 

The Highlander had been little more than a dark, silent presence at first, occupying his guest room and a big corner of the library. Brooding. Meditating. Exercising. Brooding some more. The same pattern he'd evinced again and again in times of loss and heartache.

 

But normally Mac would retreat and do it alone. The fact that Mac had chosen to do it in **Methos'** space this time was a good sign as far as Methos was concerned.

 

And Mac had come out of it far more quickly than Methos had expected. One month later Mac, and Methos and Joe, had gone to Scotland to lay Connor MacLeod to final rest, next to the remains of his first, beloved, mortal wife.

 

From there they had gone to the small house Mac had rented, not coincidentally on holy ground, and proceeded to get roaring drunk. Or at least Mac and Joe had; Methos had settled for relaxed. Somebody had to stay alert, after all, even there, or so he told himself. And Duncan had told Connor stories, long and sometimes loud, and late into the night. Methos had been deeply moved to be part of it, and if Joe was there too, well, he could live with that. It wasn't as though Duncan would have cried in Methos's arms, after all. Never mind that there was a tiny, treacherous part of Methos that wanted badly to be that close.

 

Okay, so that part wasn't so tiny.

 

Not then, and not now.

 

Because that was the other thing that had happened tonight to tip his world off-kilter again: Mac had **touched** him.

 

Twice.

 

Which was something that hadn’t happened since the O’Rourke dust-up, how many years ago? The shock then had been nearly as bad, too. When Mac had grabbed his elbow in the tunnel, Methos had started and looked down, to be sure it was truly Mac's hand on him, then looked up at Mac’s face, a wild and treacherous hope rising unbidden. There had been almost no physical contact between them since the Horsemen debacle, so even though the touch seemed almost unconscious on Mac’s part, Methos was encouraged by it. And later, on the barge, Mac had leaned in next to him, close enough to share body heat, as he’d delivered his little speech, one of the more oddly-worded olive branches of Methos’ experience, but an olive branch just the same. Methos had been shamefully glad of the bottle in his hands, something to focus on as his body cajoled him that if he’d just lean a little **that** way, they would touch…. But he hadn’t; he had only managed to murmur something appropriate to the moment and finish with the cork.

 

On-again, off-again; edge closer, back away: that was the dance Mac had trod since Bordeaux. That he seemed to want to save what was left of their friendship despite his obvious distaste of Methos' person was what Methos had clung to, desperately, in the bleak months after the demise of the Horsemen.

 

That night on the barge had been his last sight of MacLeod for five years. Five long years. Mac had gone walk-about. But he’d kept in touch, oddly enough, sending a series of postcards and the occasional email, sometimes to Adam Pierson but more usually through Joe Dawson. In time the communications began coming from London more frequently than any other location. When Mac mentioned that he'd taken on a renovation project there, Methos knew that the Highlander had settled again for a while. Shortly afterwards, Joe had bought a bar in London. And shortly after that, Adam Pierson had inherited a good bit of money and an old pile of a house, also in London.

 

Joe mercifully hadn't said a word, but the look in his eyes had been quite enough.

 

Still, it had been nearly another year before Mac had finally sought Methos out, to ask him the questions which had ultimately led the Highlander to the truth of Connor MacLeod's fate.

 

And in the aftermath, Mac had come to Methos again.

 

Methos hadn't known if perhaps he should be thanking the elder MacLeod's spirit in any part for that, but he had lit a candle one night, just the same.

 

Now, watching Mac chat with the lovely hostess, Methos decided it was time. Mac had given him an opening, just maybe, with his invitation to this party.

 

If that was the case, then Methos would take it.

 

Joe was not-watching him again, he noticed.

 

"Joe," he said, deliberately casual, "how are you getting home tonight? Did you come with Mac?"

 

Joe stilled, then half-turned in his chair and eyed Methos thoughtfully. "I did, actually, but my old acquaintance there…" he nodded his head toward the chamber players, "had asked if I'd be interested in coffee when they're done. Perhaps I'll take him up on it." The eyes beneath the grizzled hair were bright and sharp.

 

Methos nodded inwardly in approval -- Joe rarely missed much. "Capital idea, Joe."

 

"But you'll call me in the next day or two, no later. So we can catch up on anything I might miss."

 

"Of course." Methos took another sip of champagne. _Not that there will be much to tell, I think, just a quiet "happy birthday" and perhaps a game of chess …but that will be enough._

 

###

 

It had turned out to be a surprisingly pleasant evening, all things considered. Methos could be delightful company when he chose to be, and he had chosen to that night. His wit had been a sparkling complement to Katherine's when Mac had gotten the two of them, himself, and Joe involved in conversation. He had even deigned to dance, both with Katherine and several other women present. After the first few turns Mac had had to look away, though, as the older man's lithe movements threatened to derail his own coordination.

 

But the party was winding down now, and he and Methos had taken leave of their hosts, and of Joe and his musician friends, and were making their way out to Methos' Rover, parked some blocks away.

 

They reached the sturdy dark-green vehicle, which was to Mac's eyes the probable twin to the one Methos had owned in Paris. Methos unlocked the front door and tossed his overcoat, with its concealed weaponry, into the passenger seat, then looked at Mac. "Thank you for a surprisingly pleasant evening, Highlander," he said with a small smile, sliding into the car.

 

Warmth crept through Mac at the unlooked-for compliment, along with a small thread of something that made him strangely uneasy, as though someone, somewhere, was holding their breath. "The pleasure was mine, Adam; thank you. Good night."

 

He turned away from the car, took a step—

 

“Mac?”

 

Turning to see that Methos had powered down the Rover’s passenger window, Mac stepped back in close, eyebrows up.

 

“Would … you care to stop by for a nightcap? I believe you’ve a personal occasion to celebrate now, since sundown if I’m not mistaken.”

 

Trust Methos to know the intricacies of Celtic timekeeping. “Not tired yet?”

 

“From that lot? Not a bit. Besides, I need a good beer to chase down all that champagne, and I’m sure I’ve got some decent whisky laid up somewhere….”

 

Mac had to laugh; the tone of intimate conspiracy in Methos’ voice was entirely too inviting to resist, beckoning him into where he wanted so much to be.

 

_Oh, dangerous, Duncan MacLeod, to do this, feeling like you do right now. Will you be tempting Fate then, tonight?_

 

_What the hell._

 

He grinned, heated clear through by Methos’ half-smile and warm eyes. “Well, never let it be said that a MacLeod turned down a good –"

 

He froze as Presence washed over him. Who --? He straightened and swirled around, heard the small noises of Methos coming equally alert, shifting inside the car, looking for the intruder --

 

There.

 

“Well, well. Go for a walk on a snowy night, and one never knows who one might run into.” The voice was cultured and cold, and fit the unfamiliar face of its owner well as he moved into the meager light.

 

“I’ve no quarrel with you, nor do I want one,” Mac said as he sized the other man up, hoping. This was **not** how he had wanted to end his night.

 

“Nor I with you, but then that’s hardly the point, is it?” The stranger’s smile got nowhere near his eyes. “Challenge.”

 

Fuck.

 

“My name in this life is Richard Wiley. And you are?”

 

“Really not wanting to get into this tonight,” Mac snapped. “It’s the holiday, for God’s sake, can’t we give it a rest?”

 

“That is one of the reasons why we cannot. It is the Solstice, the longest night. A night for sacrifice.”

 

Behind him he heard Methos hiss something low and harsh, probably a curse in some long-dead language. He’d have to get the older man to teach it to him, he thought absently, it sounded suitably vicious. "And for some reason you've decided I'd make a good one, is that it?"

 

His challenger gave him a small, mocking incline of his head. "As you say. Your name, sir."

 

 _Fuck._ No help for it now. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and you'll have your fight, but not here. The old Hollington yards, half an hour."

 

Wiley's smile widened. "And of course, one can trust the word of the MacLeods, whose reputation precedes them." He swept Mac a mocking bow and disappeared into the night.

 

The MacLeods. As in plural. God, that hurt.

 

"Get in, Mac, I'll drive."

 

He turned back to look through the open window again. "Methos, you don't --"

 

Methos' eyes glittered with … Mac wasn't sure what. "MacLeod, you just promised me a nightcap and I intend to collect. Get. In."

 

" **I** promised **you**? Wait a minute…."

 

But he tossed Methos' coat into the back seat and got in, and Methos hit the gas, harder than necessary in Mac's opinion.

 

The older Immortal was silent as he maneuvered the car out onto the main road, but there was tension in the set of his jaw. It was some minutes before he spoke again.

 

"I don't suppose there's any chance we could just continue on to my place and forget about this latest bit of macho posturing?"

 

Mac gave him a sour look.

 

"Right. Didn't think so."

 

###

 

The abandoned derelict yards were dark and silent when they arrived. Methos parked in the shadows on the outside of the tattered gates, which were chained closed but with more than enough gap to slip through. Duncan got out of the Rover and shrugged out of his long coat, tossing it onto the car seat. He needed to get out of his cutaway, which was far too snug to fight in. Then Methos was behind him, peeling the tight fabric down his arms and off. He tossed it into the car, then presented his back to Duncan, clearly requesting the same favor. Duncan did, filling his hands with fabric warm from the other man's body, and time seemed to slow as he slipped the coat down, his fingers brushing the hidden whipcord strength of Methos's shoulders and arms. Sensation rippled along his nerves. _We could slip a few more things off, if you'd like…._

 

Then the moment was gone as Methos turned and took the cutaway from him. He tossed it into the car and passed Duncan his greatcoat in exchange, then retrieved his own from the car hood. Thus again armed, they turned to the gates.

 

Duncan slipped through and took a few steps, scanning the area. Methos was a beat or so behind him, a silent shadow. _A disapproving shadow, but here nonetheless._ It warmed him, and annoyed him. But mostly it warmed him.

 

Methos' silence continued as they moved deeper into the yards, but his presence was a palpable thing at Mac's back, his Presence a low susurration in the back of his head.

 

Abruptly a new, harsher tingle skittered up his spine. Mac stopped, looking around, and caught the gleam of light off a sword blade as his challenger stepped into view across the clearing.

 

At his shoulder, Methos gave a soft sigh. "Right on time."

 

Mac looked over at the older Immortal, who met his eyes but apparently had said all he was going to say. Nor did he follow when Mac took the final few steps to enter the clearing, but moved some feet sideways, staying just under the shadows.

 

"Duncan MacLeod," the cold voice greeted Mac, carrying clearly over the space between them. Wiley moved toward him as he continued. "You are here, as you said. How commendable."

 

Mac wanted to growl. "I know how the Game is played, Wiley. And I am, as **you** said, an honorable man."

 

Wiley stopped some feet from him, eyes narrowing, focusing on the darkness to Mac's left. "And your friend behind you there, in the shadows? Does he also know?"

 

Interesting. The Presence of one Immortal would usually mask that of a second -- how had he known Methos was there? "Believe me, Wiley, my friend is as well-versed as anyone you'll ever meet."

 

Wiley smiled, not a pretty sight. But whatever he would have said in response was lost as he visibly started, his expression going from smug to shocked to something that looked for a moment like terror. And settled almost as quickly into rage. " **You**!"

 

Mac pulled his katana and looked to his left. Methos had taken the last few steps necessary to bring himself into the light, and it was upon his face that Wiley was focused.

 

"So sorry, but I don't believe we've met." Methos' voice was cool, giving nothing away, but his eyebrows were down, his expression telling Mac that he was a little bemused by the reaction he was getting.

 

" **Met**? No, I guess we haven't been formally introduced, have we?" Wiley snarled. "But then you never gave **introductions** , did you? And you'd have no reason to remember one small boy, staring at you from the wreckage as you nearly rode him down, one little face in the sea of carnage you'd made of our village, you **butcher** _ **.**_ "

 

Mac's stomach dropped three floors as his enraged challenger spat out another word in some language he didn't know. But a glance to his left confirmed that Methos understood it.

 

The oldest Immortal's face had paled, eyes wide, lips parted. Then the look was gone, buried under the bland air that Mac had once taken for indifference. He now knew that it masked pain and regret so deep that Mac could only barely begin to fathom the depths. But Methos said nothing. There was nothing to say.

 

Mac ached for him.

 

Wiley started for Methos, sword up. Fast as thought, Mac intercepted, katana flashing out. Wiley halted with an almost startled look, as if he'd forgotten Mac was there. Methos' expression was undecipherable.

 

Mac smiled humorlessly. "I've got a prior claim on your head, Wiley."

 

Wiley snorted. "MacLeod. You can't know what this -- **man** \-- has done, what kind of snake you've taken to your bosom if you call him friend. He --"

 

"I know." Mac cut him off before he could announce any more to the possible, probable Watcher lurking about somewhere. "Who he was, what he did. And I know who he **is** , now. You want his head, you'll have to go through me."

 

"Agreed," Wiley snarled.

 

The battle commenced with the ring of steel, blades flashing and feinting, gauging weaknesses and seeking openings. In and out, around, step and parry … time slipped away, became meaningless in the flow of the fight.

 

So Mac had no idea how long they'd been at it when he realized he was in trouble. Every swordsman used and developed a style, or several; every style had its weak points. Or every swordsman had a style with the exception of Methos, anyway; the old man had mastered so many that he never seemed to have any holes in his defense. Mac knew damn well that Methos had let him win, that first time they'd "played" in the dojo…. Dear God.

 

This man fought like Methos.

 

It was at that moment, the realization shocking almost like fear up his spine, that his foot slipped in something, old oil perhaps, throwing him off balance, and Wiley's sword scored deeply across his thigh, cutting tendon and muscle.

 

Pain shrieked along his nerves as his leg nearly folded under him, but it was nothing compared to the howling in his head, tones of doom he hadn't heard since his father had cast him out. _You cannot beat this man._

 

Everything in his spirit rose up, screaming protest, sounding uncannily like a certain ancient, contrary, annoying son-of-a-bitch: _Live, Highlander. Grow stronger, fight another day._

 

_God damn it to hell, I'll not let Methos watch me die!_

 

Then, past the pant of his own breathing, he heard Connor's voice.

 

_The best swordsman in the world fears not so much the second best swordsman, but the second worst. Why? Because the second worst does not know enough, and may do something stupid, something you cannot predict._

 

Steel rang as Mac blocked Wiley's thrust, struggling to keep his footing, willing his injury to heal.

 

Something stupid.

 

Sweet Jesus, this had better work. Because he'd only get one chance.

 

###


	2. Spring

###

 

The images would fuel his nightmares for years to come, Methos knew later when he had had time to consider it. Duncan MacLeod moving just that little bit wrong. Duncan MacLeod taking two feet worth of his opponent's blade straight through the chest.

 

But now, as he fought to breathe around the howl trapped in his throat, anguish spitting him as surely as the sword in Mac's heart, he had no thought at all. He saw Mac's blood stain his white ascot as he felt his own drain from his face. He saw the katana pointed uselessly to the stars. He saw Mac's arms reach toward Wiley in a gesture almost intimate in the second before the Scot closed in tight, pushing still more steel through his body and trapping the sword and Wiley's hands between them.

 

Mac's face was chalk-white, mouth open as he struggled to breathe. Methos heard Wiley's disbelieving gasp.

 

"You're mad."

 

"Probably." Mac's lips stretched into a death's head grin.

 

Then the tableau shattered in a flash of moonlight on steel as the tip of the katana fell. Mac's left hand rose to meet it, catching the blade in an awkward, flat-handed grip. Grimacing with pain and effort, Mac held the sword up and, in the instant that Wiley began to struggle, jerked the leading edge through the back of Wiley's neck, splitting vertebrae and spinal cord with a sickeningly audible crack.

 

Wiley's mouth opened in a soundless scream as he stumbled and went limp, his hands falling away from his sword. Duncan, his left hand bleeding profusely, kept a dogged grip on his own. Staggering, he shoved his challenger away, angling the katana, two-handed now, to slice the rest of the way through the other man's throat, relying on momentum and gravity to finish the battle for him.

 

There were two soft thumps as Wiley's mortal remains hit the pavement. It took the clang of the katana doing the same a moment later to snap Methos' paralysis.

 

He reached Mac just as the other man's knees finally buckled. He managed to ease him somewhat gently to the ground, onto his side, the only position possible with the sword protruding obscenely from his chest and back. The Scot was drenched in blood, Wiley's and his own.

 

"Methos --" It was no more than a breath.

 

Methos held him by the shoulder, balancing him. He touched Mac's cheekbone lightly, heedless of the gore. "I've got you."

 

Mac's lips twisted in something that might have been a smile. Then he shuddered once and was utterly still.

 

_Good. That will make this easier._

 

Methos took hold of the sword hilt and pulled, swore in ancient Greek when it didn't immediately come loose. _Lodged in the bone -- sweet gods below, MacLeod, you don't do anything halfway, do you?_ Rising quickly to his feet, Methos braced Mac's body with one foot, grabbed the hilt again and yanked hard. The sword came free with the raspy, grating feeling of steel along bone. He tossed the weapon aside, knowing he needed to step away, **now** , but finding himself kneeling instead to pull Mac onto his lap as the mist swirled and thickened about them. He felt the hair on his nape rise in response, electric charge building, building….

 

_Ah, Mac, you beautiful idiot, you…._

 

And the lightning struck.

 

It was agony and ecstasy, as it always was, power firing every nerve with an almost sexual rush. Even now, when most of it only flowed through him, using him as a conduit to reach and ground in the body he held, that power was so painfully sweet, so sweetly addictive … oh, he hated this. Hated it and loved it and fought against its pull as he had almost every day for the last three thousand years or so … _I will not go back, I will not be that man again. I will_ _ **not**_ _._

 

Then amidst the white there was a different kind of fire, a welcoming warmth that rose up to meet him. A Quickening twining with his own, and he sobbed with the terror and wonder of it, the ease of an ache of solitude he'd borne for so long he couldn't remember himself without it. Joined -- no longer alone. Two becoming one. A thing he'd felt only once before, when the Horsemen chapter of his past had finally come to its end in that underground hellhole in France. A thing he would have given his soul, if he had one, to feel again. With this man. _Yes…._

 

Duncan's essence coiled around him, through him; Methos thought he might pass out from the sheer -- **joy** \-- of it. An endless, suspended moment of bliss…

 

…gone, the bridge between them collapsing as Wiley's quickening ended and sank into Mac's body. Methos bent over the still motionless man in his arms, gasping, as the final flares vanished, and nearly sobbed again, this time with loss. _Duncan…._

 

As if summoned, Duncan shuddered back to life, twisting, then arching, convulsing as his mind and body fought to deal with the onslaught of three thousand years of power and personality. Methos braced him through it, feeling his own tremors, knowing that Mac was being inundated with the memories of another Immortal who had seen some of the worst Death had had to offer. As the seizure eased and Mac's body relaxed, Methos loosed his embrace and crossed mental fingers. "Easy, Mac. It's just me."

 

Mac stilled, head cocked; then his eyes tracked, and recognition flared. "Methos," he whispered, with no more voice than before, and closed his eyes, turning his face in toward Methos' belly.

 

Methos swallowed hard, undone. That one small, artless motion bespoke so much of Mac's trust, Mac's acceptance….

 

_"You want his head, you'll have to go through me."_

 

He couldn't lose this man. He couldn't.

 

"Too close, Mac."

 

"… yeah …"

 

"I hope those clothes aren't rented, the waistcoat's a complete loss."

 

Mac grinned tiredly, eyes still closed, and whuffed a little laugh; then winced, one hand drifting up to press over his chest where Wiley's sword had been, just above where Methos' own hand now rested.

 

"We need to get moving…." Methos prompted gently, some moments later.

 

"Mmmm. 'll take … nightcap now."

 

But still neither of them moved. _It would figure,_ Methos thought, a little wildly. _I finally get Duncan MacLeod's head in my lap and there's no time, we've got to move before some wowzer shows up to investigate the lightshow. Oh, the gods are laughing, all right._ "Mac…."

 

"Yeah." The Scot sighed, then rolled slowly out of Methos' lap and into a sitting position with none of his usual grace. The effects of a Quickening could be different from situation to situation, Immortal to Immortal, but the most common ones seemed to be extreme exhaustion and fierce sexual arousal. To Methos' experienced eye, Mac was somewhere between the two, and sliding toward the second one. Cold air rushed in where Mac's body had rested against his, making Methos shiver. He felt -- bereft, his body missing the heat, the touch, of Mac's, and he clamped down on the thought. Mac wasn't his, not that way, for Methos to be bereft about.

 

###

 

Mac shifted uncomfortably in the car seat, eyes closed, his coat lining rough against his sensitized skin. His bloody shirt and waistcoat were balled up in the back of the Rover where Methos had thrown them after he'd methodically taken them off Mac when they'd reached the vehicle. The ride back was a sublime form of torture as his exhaustion had mutated into rampant horniness, courtesy of the Quickening. The air was full of the scents of blood and sweat and the man he wanted so badly his teeth ached. Deep breathing did nothing to help the situation.

 

The car slowed, turned, and Mac opened his eyes to see the hulk of the mansion that was Methos' current London home. When it had come unavoidably to the choice of dying or inheriting, Adam Pierson had inherited in a big way. Mac could see again Methos awaiting him as he climbed the stairs, the older man's rangy form clothed in tailored pants and red silk shirt, his Presence tolling like the vibrations of an unimaginably large bell. He'd looked little like the impecunious Watcher Mac had first met, but his eyes were the same; brown, green, golden, and old beyond Mac's comprehension of the word. He'd offered greeting, and wine, and advice of a sideways sort, and the kind of understanding only another Immortal could give.

 

And Mac had realized that the years of separation hadn't dulled his longing for Methos, prickly, sarcastic, infuriating eldest, even one God-damned little bit.

 

But why had Methos brought him here? "Methos?"

 

Methos parked and turned off the engine, pulled the keys from the ignition. "Proximity, Highlander. You need a shower and we need to get off the street," he said, answering the question Duncan hadn't finished forming. _Mind-reading again,_ thought Duncan. _Does that come with age and when do I qualify?_ He wanted to laugh, felt the hysterical edge to his thoughts.

 

"Get inside, get cleaned up, get some rest," Methos continued, opening his door. "I'll take care of the mess." He indicated the contents of the back of the Rover with a nod of his head. To be so accommodating was rather unlike Methos, but Mac decided he was too beat to worry about it just then. His every muscle protesting, Mac pried himself out of the car and started toward the house.

 

###

 

Mac deliberately tried to avoid his reflection in the guest bathroom mirror as he stripped, knowing he was blood and sweat and grime from head to toe. He didn't want to see it, didn't want to deal with the memories of earlier savageries on top of the roiling violence he was already trying to contain. He couldn't help the hiss of relief as he eased off the tight breeches, freeing what felt like the worst hard-on he'd had in a hundred years. He didn't even bother kicking the pants aside, just stepped out of them and left them as the last item on the clothing trail to the shower.

 

A minute later Mac was leaning against the back wall of the oversized stall, caught between pleasure and discomfort as the hot water sluiced away the first layers of grime and tingled his too-sensitive skin. The water pounded him like the massaging touch of strong fingers, warm _hands on his arms, following the slide of fabric as they'd removed his coat, strong arm around him, holding him away from the cold, dirty ground, warm hard thighs pillowing his head, hazel eyes watching him, God, the feel, the smell when he'd turned his head toward -- so close -- almost close enough to_ _ **taste**_ _\--_

 

Mac arched and came, gasping, then sagged back against the tile wall, panting and frustrated. Hell, he hadn't meant to do that, fantasize about Methos in the man's own house, but Christ, he'd barely even laid five fingers on himself before he'd come. And the release had done little more than take the edge off -- he was still half-hard. And getting harder. Mac turned, propped his arms against the slick tiles and laid his head down on them, groaning. Quietly. _It's going to be a long, long night._

 

###

 

Two hours later, Methos sighed and rolled over, opening his eyes to stare at up at the shadowed ceiling. How perverse. Now that it was over -- Mac alive and installed in the rooms just down the hall, everything quiet and right with the world -- he couldn't sleep. As tired as he was, still he was jumpy, muscles bunched and twitchy. His mind would not turn off, reminding him in exquisite detail of how close he'd come to losing MacLeod for good. Losing him without ever having a single touch, a single taste of what it could be like, to run his fingers down that bared golden chest, to lick that lower lip….

 

 _Stop this, goddammit. **Stop.** There have been close fights before; Kell comes to mind._ He shouldn't have been anywhere near that battle, but he had been anyway, watching from just out of sensing range. _Why is this different?_

 

_Because it is._

 

Methos squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, hard; then tossed the bedclothes aside and sat up, reaching for his robe.

 

Back from the study, brandy and glass in hand, he hesitated at his door, listening, looking further down the hall at the slightly open door to the suite where Mac was. Or should be. He sensed no motion there, and heard no sounds save the normal noises of the house. _Of course not, idiot. He's asleep, or at least resting, after no doubt making carnal use of the shower to settle the Quickening._ Great, there was another image he didn't need. _Have a glass or five and go back to bed._

 

_But you don't really want a drink. What you want is in that room._

 

A rueful smile curved his lips a few moments later as he found himself at Mac's door. He pushed gently with his free hand, and the heavy oak swung noiselessly inward.

 

The sitting room was shadowed with midnight blue, light from the full moon pouring in through the uncovered windows. Beyond, the door to the bedroom was open, and Methos could hear the measured cadence of Mac's breathing.

 

Something in him finally unknotted. Methos placed bottle and glass carefully on the table, then sank limply onto the sofa. _You are such a liar, old man._

 

_There's nothing different about this time, nothing at all. You did the **same** bloody thing when he came to you after he took Kell's head. When he wouldn't speak, you lay right here and listened to him breathe._

 

_All right. Fine. So. Shut up and get some sleep._

 

And maybe he did, because the next thing he knew he was being pulled out of a wonderfully carnal dream involving a naked MacLeod and sweet gooey things by -- something. A sound. A voice.

 

"God…."

 

Mac's voice. Soft, small, faint. Pained.

 

Methos' eyes popped open and he tensed instinctively, then forced himself to relax. This, too, was familiar.

 

"Oh, God."

 

Mac had awoken like this how many times in those first days after Connor's death, obviously trying to shake off nightmares that Methos could imagine only too well. He listened, resigned; quite sure that he couldn't help. _The inspiration for Biblical Armageddon has got to be the last thing he'd want to see by his bed at three in the mor--_

 

"Methos."

 

Methos sat up so fast he nearly jackknifed off the sofa, looking wildly over toward the bedroom. **That** was not familiar. Of the many names he'd heard emerge from the Highlander's dreams, his own had never been one of them. Was Mac awake and calling, knowing somehow that Methos was there? But no figure stood in the doorway.

 

As he stared, myriad visions flashing through his mind of what Mac could be dreaming, none of them pleasant, he heard a sudden rustle of sheets and thump of feet hitting the floor. There came the glow of a small light; the shadow of a moving body. Then he heard it. The small, choked sound of a strong man in a distress too great to bear in silence.

 

" _Methos…._ "

 

Methos was up and moving, a thousand years of learned reticence shattered this time by the urge, no, the primal **need** that he could no longer deny or subdue.

 

"Mac?" he said softly as he reached the doorway. And then all he could do was stare.

 

Mac was standing in front of the east window, hands on either side of the frame, stark naked. Moonlight painted him with silver and shadow, outlining every magnificent inch of him. All of him.

 

Methos' mind stumbled. He was quite sure that Mac normally slept in briefs, so why in the names of all the gods was he not wearing them now? _Well, perhaps because he wasn't expecting to need a change of clothes tonight, idiot. Besides, could he even get anything on over that? Whatever he did earlier to settle the Quickening, it obviously didn't work. That looks downright painful._

 

Mac hadn't turned, but his spine had snapped poker-straight at the sound of Methos' voice. "Methos." His tone was thick, clogged. "Sorry if I woke you. Bad dream. Go --back to bed, I'll be fine."

 

Oh no, Highlander. Not this time.

 

Methos' rational voice of caution, the one that had kept him alive, and alone, screamed at him, demanding to know just when exactly he had lost his mind and would he please stop this and go look for it, **now**. Methos ignored it and stepped through the doorway.

 

He could feel Mac's tension ratchet up from across the room. Everything about him screamed it: the set of his shoulders, his bowed head, his hands as they gripped the window frame. Methos was almost sure he could see Mac's knuckles whiten as he approached.

 

"I'm -- all right, Methos." Mac's voice was harsh, sending clear 'back off' signals that Methos ignored.

 

"No, I don't think you are." Methos was near enough now to feel the heat of the other man's body. He stopped when he was whisper-close, and laid one hand on Mac's shoulder. The muscles tightened further under his touch, and he knew there was an equally good chance of one of two things: either Mac would throw him across the room, or….

 

"Don't. **Please** _._ " Mac leaned his forehead against the window glass, the plea for -- what? -- evident in every line of his body.

 

Methos took a breath and braced himself, and put his other hand on Mac's shoulder as well, and squeezed. "Don't what? Let me help, Mac."

 

"Me- **thos** _…._ " That was all the more warning he got.

 

The room tilted as two-hundred pounds of Highlander took him to the floor. Methos felt the pile of the rug under his back and the weight and hard heat of Mac's chest against his own as sword-hardened hands jerked his robe open. Then all was drowned under the feel of Mac's mouth on his throat. Licking, sucking, scratching; Mac nipped from the hollow between his collarbones to the one just behind his ear. Methos gasped and twisted, and Mac grabbed his shoulders, pinning them. Then the Scot closed teeth on the big tendon of his neck and bit down.

 

 _Yes …_ _ **yes**_ _…._ It was all his mind could manage as every nerve in his body fired simultaneously, all of them aimed at his groin. Mac had somehow found the exact spot guaranteed to make Methos come unglued. He locked his fingers around Mac's wrists, needing contact, an anchor as the blood thundered in his ears on its rush southward. Mac thrust against him, his arousal hard against Methos' hip, one thigh shoved between his own. Only distantly did he become aware that Mac was muttering something over and over against his skin. Methos tried to reassemble a few brain cells to decipher the sound. When he did, he wished to all the gods that he hadn't.

 

"No, no, not like this, it wasn't supposed to be like this…." Mac's baritone slid hotly against his skin, the tone as desperate and pleading as Methos had ever heard him, even as his hands never eased their grip, nor his hips their rude push. Methos' entire body flushed hot and cold with desire and despair. Mac didn't really want this, not with **him** , and he'd known that when he stepped into the room, it was the Quickening and that was all, but if this was by the gods the only chance Methos would ever get….

 

"It's … all right, Mac, it's okay. I'm not … Amanda, I know, but…." His heart cracked further at Mac's moan, then….

 

"Believe me, I **know** you're not Amanda." Mac tossed his head back, then heaved up onto his elbows, his hands still across Methos's shoulders, pinning him with weight and wild eyes. "But it wasn't supposed to happen this way. When I finally got you into bed, it was supposed to **mean** something!"

 

Time stopped. Mac froze, staring down at him. Methos lay equally still, stunned, as his brain shunted aside arousal and went into hyperdrive, processing words said and unsaid and the despairing, defiant, hopeless look on Mac's face as the other man realized that just like that, he'd given himself away.

 

"Mac," Methos whispered; it was all he could do as euphoria flooded him. Impossibly, in three sentences, Mac had just handed him the world. From the depths to the heights in under ten seconds; whatever else life around the Highlander might be, it was rarely boring.

 

"Mac," he managed again, sliding his hands up MacLeod's arms, framing his face. "Oh, it means something, truly. More than…. No matter what started this, it's only you and I." He'd no reason to drop his usual masks, he realized, they were nowhere to be found. The floodgates had broken under the pressure of years of helpless love and hopeless longing for this man, and it was both freeing and utterly terrifying to realize that the next words to come out of his mouth would be the absolute truth.

 

"I **love** you, Duncan MacLeod," Methos said softly, stroking golden skin stretched taut over high cheekbones, brushing the corner of that mouth with one thumb. "And I have wanted you for years."

 

"Methos?"

 

Mac's voice was faint, his expression too deer-in-the-headlights priceless for words. Methos just couldn't help the grin, even as the backs of his eyes prickled annoyingly and Mac's outline blurred a little. "Yes?"

 

"You -- love me."

 

"Yes."

 

The expression that bloomed across Mac's face then nearly stopped Methos' heart. Incredulous joy, and painful relief, and love so strong it was terrifying. Had **anyone** in five millennia ever looked at him quite like that?

 

"Methos." A moment longer Mac stared, then his face was buried in Methos' neck and he was holding on as though the other man was the only real thing in his world. "Oh, Jesus, **Methos** _…."_

 

Methos embraced him tightly, blindly, eyes screwed shut, silently singing prayers to every god he'd ever heard of for the miracle in his arms, sprawled on top of him. Mac was heavy, trembling faintly. Methos never wanted to move again.

 

Or at least he didn't until Mac shifted just slightly, and the hard ridge of his erection slid again in the hollow of Methos' hip.

 

Renewed desire slammed through Methos in glittering spikes, converging into an exquisite ache in his groin. He groaned softly in spite of himself, hips pushing up against Mac's. "Gods…."

 

"Methos?" Mac lifted his head, his eyes almost black with arousal, muscles quivering faintly with the control he'd mustered from gods only knew where to leash the effects of the Quickening. Barely.

 

Impressive as hell, but it was the last thing Methos wanted. He wanted motion. Fast, hard, skin to skin and right this very minute. And he had to have that mouth. Had to, or die. "Kiss me, Duncan."

 

Mac hesitated a moment, obviously gathering control. Methos buried both hands in Mac's too-short hair and dragged him down. The Highlander's mouth was utterly intoxicating, spices and whisky, lust and desperation. Methos laced the kiss with five thousand years of the art of seduction, and felt it go through Mac's precarious restraint like a sword through mist.

 

Groaning, Mac leaned into the kiss and fought Methos for control of it, eating at him, before wrenching away again to bury his face in the other man's neck. "Methos," he choked out, mouthing skin, "I can't -- control -- "

 

"Then don't," Methos hissed, shuddering as Mac's fingers raked over his nipple.

 

Mac **growled** , sending a whole new frission up Methos's spine. The Scot was on him like fury, then, and all Methos could do was hang on for the ride. Mac twisted and slid, teething down Methos' neck and chest as though he'd eat him alive before finding a nipple and latching on, hard.

 

Sensation whipped and shimmered, heaving Methos like a child's plaything. He grabbed for Mac's hair again to hold him there, but the other man was moving, biting, licking a hot trail down his torso. Hands gripped at his waist, and Methos had just enough presence of mind to raise his hips as Mac yanked at his boxers. Then the fabric was gone and Mac's hands were sliding hot up his legs, pushing his thighs apart.

 

The thought of Mac inside him made Methos shudder again, hard, with delight and apprehension. _This is going to hurt,_ he realized distantly, knowing he wasn't ready, knowing it had been far too damn long since he'd been with another man this way, knowing he'd let Mac do it anyway and welcome him, whatever happened; Methos wanted him that badly.

 

He pried his eyes open to see, to -- what? In the next second it ceased to matter, as the dark-eyed incubus above him instead braced both arms across Methos' hips, lowered his head and swallowed him whole.

 

He could no sooner have stopped his cry than he could have flown as he was suddenly enveloped in hot, wet, _oh gods!_ sucking heat. What was left of his mind abdicated as his body took over, bucking, getting nowhere under Mac's weight. Tongue and throat muscles worked at him and he was half-mad with the feel of it within a minute, shoved to the knife-edge of orgasm with unbelievable speed. The touch of blunt fingers cupping his sac, kneading not-gently, was just another swirl in the cauldron of sensation his body had become until Mac slid a slick finger back, and behind. And in.

 

Methos heard a fractured, choked-off howl and barely knew it as his own as his world shattered in a firestorm of light, his body seizing so tightly he thought his spine would snap. Then there was unbearable ecstasy, a long, searing slide into white-hot oblivion, going on and on as he gave over, and over, and over….

 

_Duncan…._

 

There was a sudden change of weight, touch, pressure. Gasping for air, Methos dragged his eyes open to see Mac's face now very close to his, contorted with need as he thrust violently against Methos' groin, sliding through the slippery fluids trapped between their bodies. It was so, so good, the hard strokes prolonging his own helpless shudders of pleasure, heat, sweat, smell, _Mac, oh gods, Mac…._

 

Just as the friction tipped over from pleasure into pain, Mac froze, then convulsed against him, face twisted in agonized rapture as he spilled, widening the wet slick between them, glistening and hot. Mac hissed out his name, his breath fiery against Methos' collarbone, as orgasm hammered through him. Then he collapsed in slow motion, catching himself briefly on his forearms before slumping down fully onto Methos, a limp, heavy human blanket, Quickening energy spent at last.

 

Harsh breathing was the only sound, then --

 

"Methos?" Mac asked in a raw whisper.

 

"Shh."

 

"Methos -- "

 

"Hush, Highlander." His own voice was breathless, strengthless, but sure. "Nothing happened here that I didn't want."

 

That seemed to divert any potential Scottish guilt, at least for the moment. Methos got his leaden arms to obey him and wrapped them around Mac's broad shoulders, and let himself drift. He had no desire whatsoever for anything else. He was replete, more utterly satisfied than he could remember being in a long, long time. It didn't really change much, of course; the problems between them yesterday and today would undoubtedly pop up again tomorrow, or the next day. But just for now, for this one remarkable, miraculous moment in time, the rest of the world could go hang.

 

# # #

 

It was who-knew-when later and they were still a tangled mess on the carpet, a shattered, satiated wreck. Duncan had shifted only enough to lay his head on Methos' chest, his weight still between Methos' thighs. Methos drew patterns across Duncan's shoulders and through his damp hair. Duncan's hand moved also, slowly, stroking down Methos' side from ribs to hip, over and over. They were going to get rather cold, Methos knew, and the rug, despite the excellent underpadding, was not the most comfortable spot in the house. But he hadn't yet worked around to giving a flying fuck.

 

"You've done this before," he commented softly, hoarsely.

 

"Mmm-hmm." Duncan chuckled; the sound vibrated through him and succeeded in awaking a few nerve endings Methos had thought completely burned out. "Well, yes and no. I soldiered for a long time. But I…." The petting hand slowed, stopped; its owner took a deep breath. "I'd never made love to a man before."

 

Methos had to close his eyes for a moment as the sharp, painful sweetness of it arced through him. He swallowed, looking for his voice; Duncan's stillness told of his need for an answer. _And do you have one? If you muck this up, you may never forgive yourself, old man._

 

"I have. Or I thought I had, until now. This…. I have no words for this, Duncan."

 

Duncan sighed, tension running out of him as quickly as it had come, his body melting back into Methos'. "Then I'd say we'd better practice, often, until you find some. I'd hate to see your reputation blown like that." He snickered, then grunted as Methos gave a sharp tug to his hair. "How long might it take, do you think?" He sounded far more hopeful than repentant.

 

"Hmm, decades, at the very least. Centuries, possibly."

 

"That long." Now Duncan sounded more satisfied than hopeful, even, and Methos swallowed again as the ache of old, far too familiar pains rose behind his heart.

 

"Mac, there are no guarantees in our lives. There can't be. If you live long enough, you will break every promise you've ever made."

 

Duncan stilled again; then Methos felt his head come up, and the broad hand at his waist slid up to rest over his heart. "Methos."

 

Methos opened eyes he didn't remember closing, met the other man's gaze. Mac had never been terribly good at hiding his emotions and they were all laid out now in his coffee-dark eyes: relief, nervousness, worry, affection; and the deep, abiding courage that never failed to take Methos' breath away.

 

"I'm willing to try. The chance to take that chance, that's all I'll ask."

 

_All. Gods above and below, that's all, he says._

 

He couldn't speak, saw the pain that flashed through Mac's eyes and was swiftly hidden at his lack of an answer. Mac reached up and brushed fingertips gently along the side of Methos' face. "I have wanted this for so long, but…."

 

He had to ask. "How long?"

 

Mac's smile was a small, wry thing. "When you fell in love with Alexa."

 

 _By_ _ **anything**_ _holy…!_ "Then why -- " And stopped as their mutual history flashed through his mind and events took on a rather different cast. Warren Cochrane, hard on the heels of Alexa's death. Jakob Galati. Ingrid Henning.

 

Kronos. Byron.

 

Mac's on-again, off-again body language since Bordeaux, edging closer then pushing away again. Methos had thought it disgust, distaste. Now, like sudden light through a newly opened window, it took on an entirely new appearance. His highly developed sense of the absurd laughed at him: five thousand years and he could still completely misread the signs.

 

It wasn't that Mac hadn't wanted to touch him, but that he had.

 

"You've been afraid. Afraid of this. Us." It was out of his mouth before he knew, his voice a soft, mystified tone that didn't sound like him at all. "Why?"

 

Mac stilled, a stunned look on his face. His lips parted several times before he made a sound, then -- "Why. **Why**? I … **God's Teeth** _,_ Methos!"

 

The Highlander was up and halfway across the room before Methos could do more than twitch. "You've known me for how long; hell, you've read my God-damned **Chronicle** and you can ask me **why?!** "

 

Post-orgasmic languor vanished like morning mist, drowned under the wave of apprehension. Methos rolled up onto his knees, letting his much-abused robe slip off his arms to puddle on the floor. He watched Mac stalk the perimeter of the room and end up in front of the fireplace, one hand clenching on the mantle. He was a marble Atlas come to life, head bowed under the weight he insisted on shouldering.

 

"Relationships … do not go well for me, Methos. I've never had even half a lifetime with anyone I've loved. Either they leave, or they die. Always." The breath Mac drew in looked like it hurt.

 

"Tessa was the longest, barely over a decade. When she was killed, I damn near…. But I had to -- stay, for Richie."

 

Methos was up now, moving soundlessly over to Mac, behind him, laying his hands on the broad, tense shoulders. Déjà vu all over again….

 

"I loved Tessa with everything I had, but I knew she was mortal. But you -- to lose you…." Mac's voice ground like shattered glass.

 

The words both voiced and silent, and the sheer breadth, height and depth of feeling in Mac's voice washed over Methos like a wave closing over his head, scouring away the apprehension and leaving something far more seductive, infinitely more dangerous in its wake. He could drown so damned easily … oh hell, who was he trying to fool? He had drowned a long time ago. He'd just never admitted it. "I'm damned hard to lose, Mac, unless I wish to be lost. And I don't, not now."

 

"Methos…."

 

"Shhh." Methos squeezed Mac's shoulders, working at the tightness there for a minute, then slid his hands down and around, fitting his chest against Mac's back. He kissed the nape of Mac's neck, long and slow, felt him shiver. He tucked his head in close, his cheek to the other man's neck. "Five millennia, Duncan. Five thousand years and counting. No, there are no guarantees, but I'd say the odds look pretty good." He felt the vibration through his chest as Mac gave a choked sort of laugh.

 

"They do, don't they." He laid a hand on Methos' arm. "I meant every word I said earlier, about wanting to take the chance. Whether I'm terrified or no." Mac's voice, already low, dropped to a near whisper. "I … I need you, Methos. I need you in my life."

 

 _Say it._ _ **Say**_ _it, old man._ "Then take the chance, Duncan."

 

A moment of stillness; then Mac exhaled as though he'd push out every bit of breath, the tension running out of his body like water, and tilted his head back to rest against Methos' shoulder. Methos turned his face into Mac's strong, vulnerable neck, suddenly fighting the absurd sting of tears, wanting nothing more in that moment than to hold on. To hold tight and feel the steady drum of Mac's heart beneath his hand, feel Mac's warm skin against his face, feel the faint tremor of his own body; hold tight until the racing of his own heart slowed and he could draw a deep breath again.

 

"Methos?" It was only a whisper.

 

"Yes?"

 

"I love you."

 

 _Breathe. Breathing is good._ "Yes."

 

_Oh, gods. Despite the fear and heartbreak and pain, you step again into the breach. You humble me, Highlander._

 

###

 

Eventually the deep breath did come and Methos felt the pieces of his world settle again into their new, satisfying, utterly terrifying pattern. With that came the sudden awareness that not all the tremors he felt were his own. "Duncan?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

 **That** didn't sound so good. Methos drew away enough to see Mac's face, and realized why. "You're knackered. Come lie down before you fall over, you need sleep." He shifted his weight back, and Mac let himself be turned and walked over to the bed. But as soon as Methos pushed him down, he was trying to rise again.

 

"We … I should clean up…." One hand moved in a vague reference to the sweat and other fluids that Methos had utterly forgotten still painted them both.

 

Methos kept him on the mattress with a firm hand to the shoulder. "I'll do it. You. Lie. Down."

 

"Yes, mother."

 

"No, that's your role; mine's enlightened self-interest. I don’t want to be sticking to you until we've done something more to warrant it," Methos tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the ensuite bathroom.

 

"Ah." Methos had to smirk -- Mac sound entirely too smug for his current worn-out state.

 

Finishing wiping himself off and then wringing out another washcloth in warm water, Methos straightened up, and was caught for a moment by his reflection in the mirror. Naked, still flushed, his hair every which-a-way -- rather debauched, he'd say. A look he hadn't seen on himself in too long. A look with which he hoped to become well re-acquainted.

 

Duncan was nearly asleep when he returned, sprawled on his back amidst the kicked-down sheets. Methos spared a moment to miss the hair -- he had rather been looking forward to seeing it fanned out around Duncan's face. But he had time, now. Hair grew back, after all.

 

Duncan barely stirred as Methos cleaned him; in fact, he was snoring softly by the time Methos stretched out beside him and pulled the bedclothes up to cover them both. Propping up on one elbow, he watched Duncan's face in the moonlight, the younger man's frequent lines of care and caring temporarily vanished in his sleep. Something lodged and expanded in Methos' chest, making it hard to breathe. _I will not leave you again, Highlander. Not now._

 

As if to mock him, his own earlier words rang in Methos' ears: _If you live long enough, you will break every promise you've ever made._

 

His hand clenched in the sheet atop Duncan's chest. Well, then, for the first time in two thousand years or so, he would just have to dare to hope.

 

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in DIVERSE DOINGS 11, May 2003. (Straight Up Press) This is this story's first appearance on-line. Story is set post the movie HIGHLANDER: ENDGAME (2000), and assumes knowledge of both that movie and the tv show HIGHLANDER: THE SERIES.
> 
> 2004 FanQ winner for HIGHLANDER slash.


End file.
